Book Brain

Just in case anyone from Harlequin happens to peek in here? I working really hard on my next book. Less than two weeks until deadline, and I have book brain.

This means, where ever my body has to be, my brain is stuck in 1813 (A year of bad weather in England). At best, I am distracted, and more than usually aphasic. No trouble getting the right words on paper. But verbally, I’m totally incoherent.

For example, I announced to the family last week, that we needed to go Christmas shopping at Walmart, because we were out of mayonnaise.

I think I deserve some credit for knowing the state of the mayo supply, even if I can’t seem to wrap my head around the concept of ‘January’. For the most part, I have no idea what is in the kitchen, other than an enormous stack of dirty dishes.

I bought food. Once. Recently. I think. As a matter of fact, the mayo run turned into a major shopping excursion, with my husband insisting that I had to stop since there was no more room in the cart, and me insisting that it was last call until February first, and to keep loading if he wanted to eat.

And that smart family members should keep their choices to convenience foods, since the odds on getting anything unburned during my kitchen shift are getting slim. It’s every man for himself, around here.

And since all is not sweetness and light in my corner of Regency England, if you can get my attention at all, my mood might be a reflection of what I’ve been writing. Woe be unto all, if the characters are having an off day.

I am trying to think warm fuzzy thoughts, burning candles, and taking deep breaths. But the soothing Grandfather clock that keeps me company during the day, was chiming random hours and making me nuts instead of calming me down. So I called a clock repairman, who took the whole mechanism away, and left me in dead silent Westminster-less-ness. And now, even though I refuse to make dinner, I am bringing a big steaming plate of crazy to the potluck that is my life.

Apparently, I am in A MOOD.

I think it’s a definite sign, when your type A husband, gives you a scared look, fishes around in his desk drawer, comes up with a pair of chiming enameled exercise balls, pushes them across the room, and then hurries back out of range of my wrath.

You all have seen these things, right? Heavy enameled metal, usually cloisonne with an Asian design. Mine are midnight blue, with yin and yang symbols all over them.

So now, I can have a pleasant ringing noise if I spin them around in my hands on the quarter, half and full hour while fighting carpal tunnel and increasing my dexterity.

But apparently, my hand eye coordination isn’t any better than my speech.

Did you know, if you drop one of the stupid things, and it hits the tank of the humidifier, it will punch a hole right through the plastic. And this is when you will find out that the gravity feed on the water is defendant on the vacuum created by NOT punching holes in the tank while it is full.

And then you better find some towels.

Signing off.

And definitely keeping away from picture windows with the damn stress relief therapy.